What brings you into believing like falling out of a dream. Perhaps indicated by the fact of the manuscript, asking to listen, and this poem, this record of processing, attempting, or just saying, this is all I have, an open handed gesture. Having to put pressure on, of course, the void. Not knowing, or being on that edge, riding it, anything.

Silence has a place in our way of being together.

Coming around to bits of language, pieces of light. Doing things like curving in space, having colors. Aluminum foil, or sheet pans being banged together in the yard. Falling apart watching petals fall hot into the wash, the ocean.

Poetics, slippery because what it seeks to define is beyond what we are given about logic and time.

Line break, a crisis, but also a relief, but also a question.

Right here, pour wine right here. Last time was different, more flat, stretched, time it takes to believe.

Coyote named after a planet in a field. Whatever needs breaking inside language is light. Instruction has to be benevolent, same as digging a hole with your hands to put rose petals in, gentle as that. Anyone would just let it, lavender in the desert.

Poetry can do something sacred. Everything in my life would be different. I like to be slow.

A circuitous route, a formula, something to try, giving and giving, trusting the images, letting doubt into the room, as poetry archives obsessions, desires, things no one can see, barely perceptible disappearances.

Lucidity is a tall order, coming and going.

Blue gathering up from the water. Green against it. Uncrossed wires. Seeing it bright outside changes seeing it bright anywhere else.

Cultivate a practice of unfinishedness, diagram the energy, something wandering like a sacred ritual.

Devotion, devotion, devotion, poetry is a devotional practice, making contact with new logic, new feeling.

Looking for a long time, finding a good shell on the beach, remembering to bring out fruit for dessert.

How do you handle silence, literally? I mean what do you physically do with it?

I need the radio on all the time.

Reading at breakfast to improvise, to meet the moment, to be brought back into some kind of ecstatic feeling, something about structure and the tools and objects it requires, something else about beauty.

Routine is attention, containing language and acknowledging the conditions.

Repetition bringing me into relationship with language. Falling in love with music.

A novel can just be a bunch of paragraphs, does a paragraph create narrative?

Cataloging ongoingness, how the historical emerges in the daily. These unseen goings on related to silence, also time.

Something so emotional about slowness.

Porch chairs, pool chairs, already here. Several senses.

What is the role of silence in practice. Is the experience of it contextual.

Participating in a way no one will grant means being devoted to practice. A ritual is there to receive my desire for habit. I need it to be somatic.

Are you ripping it off, or are you in conversation.

Here is a glass called silver. Here is a demon called glass blower. Here is a room called technology. Here is a cake called nightgown. Here is a painting called rain.

Dishes in the sink covered in cake.

Sometimes voices in a poem never speak to each other. Sometimes, like description, entering trance, language ties to memory.

Declare what you believe to be holy. Allowing mess in the space of the medium, speaking, not being relevant, channelling. Is mess a depth of engagement with language.

Intention is crucial but also sitting down to write happens to you.

Found some silence in the morning, some space to let in something struck by lightning.

What is florally required, having to be that open, to anything, all of it, everything. What work, when out of breath, does transcendence require. What is the definition of spirit in terms of shape.

Something so daring about love, repeating it, intensely.

Feral. Aftermath. Rancid. Hot. Racket. Ass. Waking up a word to its sound, which is movement.

What feels too simple, coming down to someone having made breakfast, or being the one making breakfast, both of which require trust, meaning letting someone else. The question of how to form a question so that it opens toward another.

Poems that participate in the making of the world.

What is the ritual that allows you to enter the unknown?

Still we always, still we forever.